


Allen's words

by Effenay



Category: Original Work
Genre: Clairvoyance, Fortune Telling, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Short Stories, collection of short stories interconnected, slight-urban fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29287959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Effenay/pseuds/Effenay
Summary: A writer writes.A prophet proclaims.Allan is troubled upon the realisation that his novels speak more than just mere tales of mischief, romance and fantasy. All tales he writes become a realised reality and upon this truth he ponders:Is the future predetermined?Or has his words become a self-fulfilling prophecy?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	Allen's words

The idea sparks with a simple prompt.

And with a bit of ink marking the page, a concept or foundation of the tale is laid out.

With a few dips of a nib onto a quill; or a biro on a paper, you'd be lucky to have a cohesively written scenario. Before long, the basic structure is crafted like a pencil sketch before the paint.

Stories are, well, tales we tell for others to listen. Depending on your definition of a story, it encompasses your philosophy or ideology of "why" you tell stories. I, Allan, would like to think so, anyway.

I've written tales since my first quill, not long before fountain pens grew obsolete in favour of biros. Ah, alas, I still cannot get used to typewriters; much less with those conundrums known as a desktop computer.

Every time I use one, that jittering, palm-sweating, wrist-straining sensations remain absent. Nothing about writing on a glaring screen never brings that spark of furious imagination like a pen does. That feeling of carrying that blessed weight in hand, pressing indents onto a flat surface had always done the trick. Where emotions can be expressed both lyrically and, in some ways, physically into words.

Stories are, a wonder. A reflection. A piece of one man's mind and made a seed onto other's garden heads. Which is exactly why, right now, I am more than terrified.

Fiddling with my silver pen in hand, the blank page stared back at me.

 _Write me,_ it seemed to say.

But after my most recent predicament, I found it more than difficult to begin my next work.

With a reluctant hand, I wrote the first prompt for my tale.

**_Every man a Liar._ **

"Oh no," I sank lower on my chair. "I don't like the sound of this."

Once the words are written, there was no stopping my hand. My jumbling thoughts fished for words and planted it onto the page; piece by piece it rolls itself into my first draft. Some individuals within the writing circles often say that all authors are masters of their own craft, but I say, they aren't me.

My words are written in a half-haze, my wrist rolling down every finished line. Sometimes I wonder why I chose to write it this way and not that.

Why did I make my heroine a troubled soul?

Does may male lead have to be straight?

I didn't think the way I wrote this scene is underwhelming compared to what I had envisioned.

One scene after another, I saw the tale coming into fruition, and then-

**_He led carried her corpse by the edge of the cliff. The shores of Callindra beckoning his presence._ **

**_"My love, my love," he kissed her cold brows. "Until then."_ **

**_Without another word, he stepped into the chasm._ **

My pen clattered onto the desk.

"What the hell did I just write?!" I raised the drying last page to my eyes, staring back at the horrendous last line. "This won't do, this won't do!"

Slamming the page onto the small stack, I ran my fingers through my hair in frustration.

Again. I've done the thing again. Try as I might, I seemed to writing different versions of the same tragic ending. No matter how many times I try and write a new story idea, it ends the same way. This is the sixth time.

If there is an author of this world, then they are one sick bastard to write me into this situation.

"This is- the _worst,"_ I sighed, throwing my head back onto the back of my chair.

I can't say that tale wasn't the worst I've written. Not by a longshot, no. But...

I look at the stack of pages.

Yeah, no. this isn't good. Not in the slightest. If what I've written is indeed what I think it is, then-

I reached for my mobile in my pocket lazily, my fingers tracing its protruding buttons. The fact that I'm writing the same ending could only mean someone's going to die. Terribly. Horrendously.

The worst part is, I don't know who it's gonna be. And whoever's gonna die, her loved one is definitely gonna end his life with her.

"...How am I gonna figure out their names?" I realised. "The would-be victims are definitely be a husband and wife."

I pressed the bridge of my nose, shaking my head at my predicament. I had just written a real murder scene and I have no other means to prove it since it hasn't happened yet. How do I know this? Because I've written the same ending six times before. The story will continue to persist until the actual event has passed. It's three levels of effed up, that's what it is.

Shaking my head again, I got up and took a walk towards the garden balcony. It's not much, just a literal ten square-tile-wide balcony to grow the small vegetable patch.

_The basil's not doing so well, huh._

I need a break. I need to clear my head. But that scene still persists in my brain and it's useless to stop it from repeating in my memory.

Someone will die. Their loved one will follow.

The last time this happened was when my long-time friend's business was liquidated. I didn't know the details of business deals, but again, I suddenly started writing about it in another story. Three weeks after I published it, I get a call from said friend and told me the unfortunate news.

 _"Allan, I don't know how you do it, but I felt your protagonist, man,"_ he said. _"The pressure, the workers' half-assed attitude- how do you do it?"_

 _"Um, just read a few biographies and research,"_ I said.

I was honest about it, I tell you. After writing the initial draft, my editor threw me a couple of business references in order to make the story feel authentic. It was just a fantasy plotline in the perspective of a merchant; before I knew it, _that_ happened. Go figure out what happened next.

"Jarred better not read that draft," I said grumbled.

I poked a finger into the potted basil and realised the soil had grown dry. Again. Then I realised I hadn't watered the plants in three weeks. _Shit._

I headed over to my sink, took an empty pitcher and filled it with water. As I waited for the jug to fill, I turned on the tv.

_"-On for the next story: Tragic news today when the celebrity couple; Will Able and Sarah Keys was found dead at the bottom of Lorren East-"_

I dropped the pitched hard on the sink.

_"-A family of four were doing their morning stroll on Lorren East side Beach when the couple found their bodies lying on the rock-pools. While the rising star actor 'Will Able' showed no signs of a struggle, Sarah Key's body was found brutally wounded with bruise and open wounds-"_

"Shit."

Looks like I was too late.


End file.
